The Stars Were Dim
by RonsGirlFriday
Summary: James was a professional Quidditch sensation. A bright and shining star. An unstoppable force. Until a well-aimed Bludger shattered his shoulder - and his dreams. That was the year the stars went dim for James Potter. - (ON HIATUS UNTIL I GET THE MORNING WAFFLE BACK OFF THE GROUND, as this is meant as a companion fic.)
1. Supernova

"Mr. Potter! Can I have your autograph?"

James stopped at the entrance to the team locker rooms and turned to find the source of the timid voice that had just called out to him. He smiled and knelt down in front of the small dark-haired boy who was holding out a toy Snitch in one nervous hand.

"Of course! And you can call me James. What's your name?" As he accepted the Snitch from the boy and pulled a pen from his own shirt pocket, he flashed a friendly smile towards the woman a few meters away, who appeared to be the boy's mother. The middle-aged witch blushed slightly and nodded in return.

"David Torres," said the boy.

"Hello, David. And how old are you?" James signed his name on the toy Snitch.

"Eight years old."

"What's your favorite part of Quidditch?"

"The Seeker, of course! You're my very favorite, James. You're the best Seeker ever!" David's round face was glowing.

James laughed as he handed David the autographed Snitch. "Well, thanks for that! Look, I've got to go get ready for the match now, okay? Pleased to have met you." He shook David's small hand and stood up.

"James?" asked David as James turned towards the locker rooms.

"Yeah, mate."

"Do you think _I_ could play for Puddlemere someday?"

"I think you can do anything if you practice hard enough." James smiled again and ducked into the locker rooms.

James grinned to himself as he changed into his Quidditch robes. This was one of the best parts of professional Quidditch. The other best part: a stadium packed to capacity with screaming fans.

.

* * *

.

"_Now, let's hear it for your home team…Puddlemere United!"_

James's heart was racing, his blood pounding in his ears as he jogged out of the locker rooms. Broom in one hand, he reached out with his other hand to tap the faded border of crossed bulrushes painted along the doorframe, for luck, as every Puddlemere player before him had done for over a century. After five years, this part still made him giddy. It was childish, really. But it got him pumped up for every match, so he didn't care.

"_Wong__! Huffmire! Smith! Baddock! Davies! __Alvarez__! And…"_

James kicked off and soared out onto the pitch behind his teammates, welcoming the wild cheers and thunderous applause that greeted him there.

"_Potter!"_

He took a few warm-up laps around the pitch with his team, waving to fans as he zipped by.

The din in the stadium quieted to a subdued buzz as James and his teammates touched down and lined up across from the Chudley Cannons. Eleanor Wong, Puddlemere's Captain, shook hands with the Cannons' Captain, Dean Parkinson.

James kicked off the moment he heard the referee's whistle. He rose about twenty meters higher than the rest of the players and started scanning the stadium methodically, his dark brown eyes focused on everything and nothing. He had become quite good at blocking out unnecessary nonsense around him and focusing completely on his task, while at the same time remaining hyper-aware of his surroundings. It was a skill that was perhaps more important in a Seeker than good eyesight and speed combined.

"_It's Puddlemere with the Quaffle! Huffmire has the Quaffle, and Puddlemere immediately assumes the Hawkshead Attacking Formation! Nice evasion by Huffmire there, excellent assist by __Wong,__ Huffmire breaks through Cannon Chaser Banville's defense…Huffmire scores!"_

James cheered along with the crowd, still circling the pitch and keeping a watchful eye out.

.

* * *

.

The match was a heated one. Puddlemere and the Cannons were neck and neck in the League rankings, and the League Cup might rest entirely on the outcome of this match. For over forty minutes, neither team led the other by more than twenty points. Both teams ran a skilled offense, and though turnovers were frequent, in that short span of time they had managed to run the score up to 150 points Puddlemere, 130 points Cannons.

Seconds after Wong brought Puddlemere's score to 160 points, James saw the Snitch glittering behind the Cannons' goal posts. Shafiq, the Cannons' Seeker, hadn't seen it yet, being too busy watching the Cannons soar down the pitch in the other direction.

James accelerated, following the Snitch as it flitted to the bottom of the goal posts. It hovered ten meters above the ground, taunting him, as he reached out with his right arm, about to close in.

_Crunch._

A Bludger, soaring under his outstretched arm, hit him square on the right side of his ribcage. He heard a sickening _crack_ and felt an excruciating pain sear up and down his torso.

He swore and squeezed his eyes shut for half a second before forcing them open again. He wasn't even sure whether the Snitch was still there, but with his arm still outstretched, he struggled to regain his course.

Less than two seconds after the first Bludger broadsided him in the ribs, a second force like a battering ram hit his right shoulder at an awful angle.

For a wild moment, James thought the second Bludger had taken his arm off completely. It felt like there was absolutely nothing attached to his shoulder. Except for pain. Searing, blinding, unfathomable pain.

His vision went blurry, and he felt himself slumping forward on his broom just as everything went dark.

.

* * *

.

"Is he awake? I think he just moved."

James woke, with a splitting headache, to the sound of voices whispering over him. The soft murmurs assaulted his ears, and he felt himself grimacing as he kept his eyes squeezed shut, trying to get back to the quiet, comfortable, dark place he had just come from. Too quiet, now that he stopped to think about it. He clearly wasn't anywhere near a Quidditch pitch. Where was he? _When_ was he?

"He even makes weird faces when he's unconscious." That voice was almost certainly his sister's.

"What…what day is it?" he groaned, paranoid about the fact that he didn't already know the answer. He didn't open his eyes – it felt like a very difficult thing to do.

"James!" His sister's voice again, a little clearer this time. He felt a cold hand grasp his left eagerly.

"It's the twenty-ninth." He recognized his dad's voice.

"No, it isn't. It's March first." That voice belonged to his mum, and he became aware of a pair of warm hands grasping his other hand.

"Really?" asked Harry.

"Yes, leap year was last year."

"Oh, I can never keep it straight. I think a year should have 360 days in it, not 365. That way every month can have thirty days, and we don't have to mess with this rubbish."

James groaned again. He wished they'd shut up. His head was pounding. Slowly, he began to process that the hand his mother was holding was his right hand, and this assured him that his right arm was, in fact, still attached to his body.

Hesitantly, he blinked opened his eyes, grimacing against the bright light of the room. He was in a great deal of pain, but his mother's, father's, and sister's anxious faces were a welcome sight. From his surroundings, he gathered that he was in a room at St. Mungo's. His otherwise bare torso was wrapped in an enormous white bandage, and his right arm was in a complicated sling that forced him to keep it more or less stationary and pinned to his side.

"Did you say – ow!" He winced as he tried to sit up in his bed. Pain tore through his torso and shoulder. He lay back down, defeated, closing his eyes again, seeking the relative comfort of the darkness, though the stark whiteness of the room seemed to now penetrate his eyelids. "Did you say it's February twenty-ninth?" His voice scraped his throat and he became acutely aware how thirsty he was, and hungry.

"March first, my love," corrected Ginny.

"Whatever, Mum. So I've been out for…for three days?" Two? Four? When even was the match? It felt like just two minutes ago his body had been ripped into pieces by the two Bludgers. A thought occurred to him then. "Have you all been sitting here gawking at my lifeless body all this time? And where's my lovely brother, while you're at it?"

"Back in the day I made quite a career out of gawking at your father's lifeless body, so I suppose I'm a glutton for punishment," answered Ginny. James heard a sound like a smack that made him suspect his father had slapped his palm against his own forehead. "And Al is sleeping, he's just worked forty-eight hours straight."

"We came over when the Healers said you were beginning to wake up, you conceited arse-hat," clarified Lily. "Who's got time to sit around and watch you lie about and moan all day?"

James thought that whatever Lily had just said was possibly funny, but his mind wasn't working very quickly at the moment.

"Did I… _did_ I wake up before?" He had no specific memory of having woken up in St. Mungo's earlier, but when he pressed himself to think on it, perhaps he could recall murmuring voices, fuzzy shapes in Healers' robes. "I can't… How long have you been here, when did I start coming out of it? Twenty-ninth, are you serious?" He couldn't get past that.

"March first," insisted Ginny.

"Oh my god, Mum." Rolling his eyes required them opening slightly, and the whole exercise just reminded him how much his head hurt, and subsequently everything else.

"You've been heavily sedated," Harry contributed. "That's why you've slept so long, you'd have been in too much pain otherwise. Those Bludgers did a number on you. They basically had to rebuild your ribcage."

"Well, it still hurts," grumbled James. "Feels like my fucking arm is going to fall off."

"Language!"

"Sorry, Mum. Feels like my…like my lovely, tap-dancing arm is about to fall off."

Suddenly, a thought occurred to him, an unwelcome instance of clarity rising above the disorienting fog, and panic overtook him.

"Holy bleeding hell!" Ignoring the screaming pain in his side, he forced himself upright with his left arm. "What am I going to do about Quidditch?!" He had never suffered an injury like this before. Nobody had, in his living memory. His mind raced as he tried to work out how many matches he would have to miss.

He looked from Harry's face, to Ginny's, to Lily's, and back to Harry's. Ginny bit her lip and looked at him apologetically. Lily cast her eyes down towards the floor. Harry, however, gazed steadily at James.

"Gin," he said, "do you think you and Lily can give us a minute?"

Ginny planted a kiss on James's forehead and moved towards the doorway with Lily. Pausing at the threshold, she turned around and mouthed something that looked like, _I'm sorry_. Then, with a sympathetic look, she left. This behavior only heightened James's anxiety, and he tried to slow his uneven breathing as he wondered exactly how badly he had been hurt.

"Dad…?" James looked plaintively at his father.

Harry regarded his son evenly for a moment. Finally, he spoke.

"The good news is, they say you're going to have normal use of your arm."

James wasn't sure whether his mind was playing tricks on him, or whether his dad had placed careful emphasis on the word "normal."

"What about brilliant-Quidditch-playing use of my arm?" James laughed nervously, humorlessly.

"Well, you see, the thing about that is – "

"Dad," interrupted James, "I _can_ still play Quidditch, can't I?"

Harry raised his eyebrows slightly. "Just listen to me, James. They said it won't be completely out of the question for you to play Quidditch. That is, you'll be _capable_ of doing it, and nobody's going to tell you not to. The thing is…"

James felt a horrible constriction in his chest. He wished his dad would just spit it out already.

"…the thing is, you're never going to regain a full range of motion in your shoulder, so while you can play Quidditch if you want…honestly, you won't be able to play like you used to."

His dad may as well have been speaking Gobbledegook for all the sense it made to James. Not play Quidditch like he used to? James Sirius Potter, the star Seeker, not play as well as he always had?

He refused to connect the dots. He resisted the implication behind Harry's words.

"I can catch the Snitch with my left hand, Dad, you know that! That's why you taught me both ways, in case something like this happened, right?"

"Not exactly like _this_. Do you really think you can go your entire career as a lefty?"

James shook his head, trying to think of a counter-argument, but his dad was right. James knew he couldn't. Or, at least, he _could_, but it would never be the same. The truth was inescapable. He would never be as good as he was before. His record would plummet. Puddlemere would let him go. The next great Seeker would step in, and James would be tossed aside like yesterday's newspaper. David Torres was probably the last person who would ever ask for his autograph. And David's autographed Snitch would be worth rubbish, just like James Potter.

Heartbroken and ashamed, he covered his face with his left hand to hide the tears brimming in his eyes. James Potter _never_ cried. He was all the more embarrassed to break down like this in front of his father, of all people. In an effort to keep the tears at bay, he held his breath, but that only seemed to force more tears to the surface. One traitorous droplet escaped and rolled down his cheek, that one bastard of a tear paving the way for all the others. Harry waited silently for James to have it out.

"I'm sorry," James muttered at last, wiping his nose and summoning the nerve to look at his father's face.

"For what?" Harry looked bewildered.

"For…for the crying…and the Quidditch." His breath hitched and he sniffled again.

Harry laughed in astonishment, but a concerned look creased his brow as he locked eyes with James.

"Son…I really couldn't care less about either."

.

* * *

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_A/N: I'm pleased to resurrect this old fic from my HPFF account. Back in the day I had 4 chapters completed; I'm going through and revising them before posting here. I expect the fic will be 5-6 chapters completed. This was originally written for long_live_luna_bellatrix's Contradicting Challenge at HPFF in 2009._

_In the Contradicting Challenge that inspired this fic, I was given a title, main character, side character, quote, and object that don't necessarily fit together in any ordinary way. The task was to create a story using all of those elements. The story title was assigned to me (the chapter titles are my own). My main character is James Potter II; my side character is Luna Lovegood; my object is a dictionary; and my quote is, "I think a year should have 360 days in it, not 365." Some of these elements won't appear until later in the story._

_After having written 4 chapters years ago, this fic took on a life of its own and importance to me aside from the original parameters of the challenge (it's a companion piece to an old WIP, _The Morning Waffle_, which I also expect to resurrect sometime this year and post here after significant revisions), and I considered whether to drop the challenge parameters when picking it back up. However, I've decided to stick with the original challenge elements because it's fun and was fairly important to how I decided to plot out the whole thing. My personal headcanon James II wouldn't be what he is now if not for that challenge!_

_I hope you're enjoying - I'd love to hear from you in a review!_


	2. Hubble's Law

He wasn't sure why he still kept these newspaper clippings around.

For days like this, he supposed. For times when it seemed like an excellent idea to hold his breath, dive headfirst into his own misery, and find out just how long he could stay under.

It was, after all, the most miserable collection of newspaper clippings imaginable. Most people saved articles about their achievements… major national and world events… recipes, advice columns… anything constructive.

James's collection told the story of his descent into nothingness.

It started with the first articles, dated 27 February 2029 – nearly a year prior:

.

**Bright Young Quidditch Star Falls**

_**Puddlemere Seeker Potter hospitalized for major injuries**_

.

**Sensational Seeker Shatters Shoulder**

_**Potter severely injured; Puddlemere loses to Cannons**_

.

The next one, dated 15 May 2029, represented a more hopeful time:

.

**Potter Promises He Will Play**

_**Injured Puddlemere Seeker vows to return next season**_

.

That was when he had still felt invincible. Despite the crushing disappointment of his injury, he hadn't been ready to let go. It just wasn't in him to give up without a fight. It wasn't in him to give up at all. Whether it was tenacity or stubbornness or simply egotism, when James Potter wanted something, he was like a dog with a bone – a trait that had earned him both praise and criticism in abundance.

It was hard to remember exactly what had fueled him onward – whether it was the love of the sport and the way the wind rushed through his hair, or the fact that it was the only way of life he knew, or just the love of fame itself; he could barely remember now, in the pathetic state of existence he called his life, what had pushed him to keep going. If he were honest with himself, it was probably a combination of all those things. Or maybe it was simply the fear of being a nobody. For now he could barely recall any of those positive motivations, leading him to believe they might never have existed at all. Now there were only fear and anxiety and shame.

Whatever it had been, he remembered that some unattainable delusion had made the months of therapy bearable. Something had urged him on through the agonizing days and nights when he felt as though the tendons in his shoulder were being ripped open again. Something had allowed him to see past the weakness and hope for newfound strength, even as a small voice in his head had reminded him that he would always be weaker than before. And even as his progress had grown more noticeable, every night he had still prayed that he would wake up and find out that it had all been a horrible dream – that he had really caught the Snitch, that Puddlemere had won, that the Cannons had dropped in the League standings, and that chronic pain had not become a persistent fact of life for him.

It occurred to him that his determination had, in fact, been nothing more than willful ignorance. He had been blind to what he simply didn't want to see – that he would never again be the best. In some temporary bout of insanity, he had believed that all of the work, all of the therapy, all of the practice would be good enough… but, of course, it wasn't.

And that was why the articles from the previous July told the story of an incomplete success:

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**Puddlemere Seeker to Play Reserve**

_**Potter's performance not up to par; accepts reserve position**_

.

**Seeker Switcheroo**

_**Former reserve Hoskins takes Potter's place; Potter to play reserve**_

.

James ran one hand restlessly through his black hair as he skimmed the headlines. Accepting Puddlemere's offer of a reserve spot was one of the most difficult decisions he had ever made. He hadn't played reserves since his first year out of Hogwarts, and over the past five years he'd become one of the most popular Seekers in the entire British and Irish League. Returning to the reserves had seemed shameful somehow. It was a definite step down in status, and he wasn't even guaranteed playing time. Whenever a player moved from the main team to the reserves, it was usually just a way of fading out more slowly. Death by mediocrity.

To James's credit, he hadn't glanced at any of these clippings over the past three months. In the beginning, he had spent hours poring over them, as if re-reading the descriptions of his injuries could make him immune to the pain.

The physical pain may have dulled – as long as he didn't try to lift his arm completely above his head – but the embarrassment was a wound that had been continually broken open, so that now he wondered whether he stood any chance of ever healing completely.

The only reason he was looking at these stupid things, was that he now had a new article to add to the collection. In big, bold lettering, smack in the middle of the page, it confirmed the fear that had haunted James ever since he had woken up in St. Mungo's.

He stared numbly at the Quidditch section of that day's_ Daily Prophet_, dated 13 January 2030.

.

**Is Potter Finished?**

_**Puddlemere reserve Seeker misses Snitch, raises eyebrows**_

_In yesterday's match between Puddlemere United and the Tutshill Tornados, Puddlemere reserve Seeker James Potter seemed unable to keep up with Tornados Seeker Thomas Boyd. Boyd caught the Snitch, securing a Tornados victory with a final score of 370 to 250._

_Potter, who turns 25 this month, was injured last February when two Bludgers shattered his shoulder blade and several ribs and damaged several ligaments in his shoulder. After several months of therapy he was placed on Puddlemere's reserve team._

_This is the first time this season that Potter has played in a League match, filling in for regular Seeker Jamie Hoskins. Hoskins suffered a minor injury last week and is expected to play in Puddlemere's upcoming match against Pride of Portree._

_Critics are now questioning whether Potter's Quidditch career has come to an end. Puddlemere manager Michael Slattery could not be reached for comment._

.

James had always thought the _Prophet_ put a bit more commentary than was appropriate into its news articles, but even he had to admit that the reporter wasn't exaggerating about James's inability to keep up with Boyd. Boyd was by no means the best Seeker in the League, but he was fast and he maneuvered well. And, while Puddlemere had tried to keep the physical aftereffects of James's injury under wraps, word had somehow made its way throughout the League that James just wasn't as fast or flexible as he used to be. No doubt Boyd had been encouraged by this fact, since he'd flown better in that match than he normally did.

This time last year, James could have beaten Boyd with one arm tied behind his back. But his body just didn't work the same anymore. He favored his right side, which affected the very manner in which he flew, especially his turns and maneuvers. If he tried to grab the Snitch right-handed, he was limited by the range of movement in his right arm. And, as his father had gently pointed out, he couldn't make it solely as a lefty – the Snitch wasn't always in prime location relative to his body for a left-handed grab.

But it hadn't even come down to which hand he used to grab for the Snitch – because, as the Snitch had led James and Boyd on a winding chase across the pitch and around Puddlemere's goal posts, James had fallen behind. He had trailed Boyd by mere seconds, but in a race for the Snitch, half a second was the difference between victory and failure.

He hadn't been able to look his teammates in the eye after the match. A few of them had been supportive over the past year, but he knew the rest of them questioned whether he even deserved to play on the reserve team. Wong hadn't said a word to him before the match began. She'd been opposed all along to Slattery's decision to keep James on the team; James had overheard them arguing the past summer when Slattery made the offer.

He should have known then that it was all over. How could he have expected to make a full comeback in anybody's eyes, when his own captain didn't want him on the team? He'd always gotten on so well with Wong – and everyone on the team, for that matter. But it was a professional Quidditch team, not a social club; winning was the only thing that mattered..

As James read through the article for the fifth time, his parents' barn owl Artemis soared through the open window in his kitchen and dropped a letter in front of him. James stared warily at the letter before opening it.

.

_James,_

_We heard about the match. I'm guessing you want to be alone for now, but you know if you need us you can always write or come over. Don't worry – everything will work out._

_Dad_

.

" 'Everything will work out'?" repeated James aloud. "What does that even _mean_?" His career was over, and his parents wanted him to think he would wake up the next morning and everything would be right again?

"Get lost, Arty," he said to the owl. "I don't have anything to send back with you."

Artemis clicked his beak critically and flew out the window. James tossed the note onto the table and bent his head over the _Daily Prophet_ once more.

The article wasn't as bad as it could have been – but it was only Day One. No doubt the Quidditch commentators were preparing to launch their various attacks in the days to come. Not to mention what the weekly and monthly Quidditch newsletters would hold. And the _Prophet_'s Quidditch Editor, Kip Chandra, was sure to cook up a scathing editorial within the next twenty-four hours. Chandra was notoriously harsh, and he apparently treated his staff the same way he treated Quidditch players who made too many errors, because James's mum still talked about how horrible he was, even though she had quit working for the _Prophet_ nearly five years earlier.

The bad press was to be expected, though, especially given how badly things had gone in the end. Even during the highlights of the past year, when it had looked like James might actually have a chance at success again, the news coverage had been largely pessimistic. Hope and determination didn't sell newspapers – disappointment and broken spirits did. Before his injury, the press hadn't bothered James, but that was because he rarely gave them a chance to rip him apart. He won matches; he was the golden boy, the darling of the Quidditch page. But that had all gone to hell now.

James stared at the page until the words started to blur together, trying with all his might not to care. But the more he tried to detach himself, the heavier the weight on his chest became. Sighing, he placed his head in his hands and wished he could disappear off the face of the earth. Considering this most recent bit of press, he was starting to think it would have been better if he'd just been forgotten entirely.


End file.
